


Toys For Tops

by holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)



Series: Gobmas 2020 [11]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Age Difference, Ambiguous Age, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Christmas Eve, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Christmas Smut, Consensual Underage Sex, Costumes, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Getting Together, M/M, Mild Santa Kink don't @ me lmao, Office Sex, Older Man/Younger Man, Pre-Canon, Secret Relationship, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Size Kink, Teasing, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:14:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28240731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys
Summary: A teenaged Malcolm has plans for Christmas — plans that get ruined when Gil is volunteered to be Santa at the precinct Christmas Eve party.He adjusts.---(Malcolm is ambiguously underaged in this fic. Read the tags.)
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Series: Gobmas 2020 [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2037802
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	Toys For Tops

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ToriCeratops](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToriCeratops/gifts).



> hehe you have NO idea how hard this was to keep secret, Tori. (At least from you XD) I've been quietly plotting this for a while, and it fit perfectly into gobmas with a few lil tweaks. I love you so much, Tori!!! Mwah! 💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕
> 
> (Also, thanks to KateSamantha for inadvertently giving me the title for this!)

_Sorry again, kid. I’ll make it up to you, okay?_ There’s a click as the message ends. 

Before the prompts can begin, Malcolm replays it. 

_Hey, kid — bad news. Lewis has the flu, and I’ve been volunteered to fill his boots tonight, so I won’t be able to drop by for your mom’s party. I think I’ll be beat after, too._ A sigh. _Sorry again —_

Malcolm ends the call. 

It’s not Gil’s fault. He knows that. Some years they’ve had to postpone their own Christmas exchange for cases, and a handful of times, Gil even brought him to the precinct’s party for an hour or so. It’s never too big. Most of the cops are still on duty, and it’s really just for their families to drop by and see them, eat some cookies, and get a picture with Santa instead of missing their loved ones on Christmas Eve. Gil always tries to make an appearance. Malcolm knows it’s part him wanting to and part him feeling obligated. There are still some sore spots there in regards to how Gil managed to get to where he is. 

And this year, Gil doesn’t have the choice anyway. He has to be there from the beginning of the party to the very end. 

All of his coworker’s kids are expecting to see Santa, after all. 

Malcolm expected to see _Gil_. He thought Gil would stop in at the Whitly home for some of the usual festivities, and then the two of them would head to his apartment for a _Die Hard_ marathon, hot chocolate, and cookies from the grocery store. They’d exchange their gifts there. His overnight bag is already packed. His mother’s already begrudgingly agreed even though he only got in on the train that morning. It’s _tradition_ to end up at Gil’s. 

Malcolm planned to explain his feelings. Make sure Gil understood it wasn’t a passing fancy, that Malcolm couldn’t bear to go any longer without at least making it known. 

But none of that will happen tonight. 

One of Malcolm Whitly’s defining characteristics is his stubbornness. His parents know it, Ainsley knows it, Gil knows it. 

Readjusting the duffle over his shoulder, he enters the precinct, the soft jingling of a bell shadowing his every step. There’s a medium-sized, impeccably wrapped present tucked under his arm. He makes a beeline for the receptionist’s desk. 

Miriam looks up when she hears the bell, and the smile that splits her face is instant. “Oh, don’t you look a dear,” she says, one hand rising up to cover her mouth. She rises to her feet to take in the bright green capris over red and white striped stockings. The matching green vest over a matching striped long sleeved shirt. The green hat complete with a bell at the tip and the green converse he chose instead of obnoxious elf shoes. “Is that for Gil?”

Malcolm gives her a sheepish look. “Yeah. Do you mind —?” He plops the duffle on the desk. He trusts her with his bag more than he would just about any other person in the precinct (except Gil, of course). Miriam was a sweet woman who talked with him whenever he popped by while Gil was still out, and she never held his parentage against him. 

She was, in fact, the one he called about potentially helping at the party. 

“Of course not,” she says, pulling it behind the desk. “Did you want me to hold onto that, too?” 

Shifting the present to his hands, Malcolm shakes his head. “I’m hoping there’s a lull so I can give it to him right away.”

She nods with a smile. “Well, he’s over on the main floor setting up.”

It’s all too easy to spot him. He’s already dressed up in cheap faux fur-trimmed red, a pair of his own black boots completing the look. The wig and hat cover up his dark hair, and, when he turns around, his goatee is completely obscured by the beard piece. His unaltered eyebrows shoot up as soon as he sees Malcolm. He pulls him into a hug with a laugh. “Wasn’t expecting Santa’s little helper tonight. How are ya, kid?”

Malcolm returns the embrace, not caring (much) about the way the present gets caught between them. “Better now that I’m not drinking mocktails over my mother’s massive feast for three.”

Gil snorts good-naturedly.

(Jessica Whitly is not known for small gestures, even if it’s only been the three Whitlys, Gil, and the staff around the holidays for years now.)

“I hope the trade was worth it,” he says as they break, the crinkle of his eyes all too familiar and heart-warming. “Soon enough, this place will be swarming with kids. We’ve got a few of the local orphanages coming by this year, too.”

There are only cops milling around so far. Malcolm bites his lip. “Do you think we have time for you to open this first?” 

“I don’t have yours with me,” Gil warns him.

But Malcolm stays firm. “I want you to open it now.”

Gil clasps his shoulder. “Then why not?” 

Malcolm holds onto the gift until they’re safely closed off in the office. Then, and only then, does he hold it out, tugging his hat back into place nervously as soon as it’s out of his hands. 

With a couple of rips and yanks, the pristine wrapping paper is crumpled on Gil’s desk. 

And Gil’s smile drops with it.

“Let me explain —”

“Is this a joke box?” Gil says faintly. The packaging isn’t subtle at all. _Remote-Controlled Vibrating Anal Plug_ is emblazoned across the front, the back, and all of the sides. _Four different patterns_ , it boasts underneath. _Three intensities. Batteries not included._ He opens it with numb fingers. 

Inside is the mostly empty plastic holder. The remote is still tucked in its place, however, and he stares at it as he places the whole thing on the desk beside colorful scraps of paper. “ _Malcolm_.”

“I’ve wanted this for years,” Malcolm insists. “Maybe this isn’t the best way of going about it, but —”

Gil chuckles, the sound empty. “You _think?_ Kid, this is wrong on so many levels. You’re a _minor_.”

“Except that I’ve seen you looking!” And he has. Malcolm wasn’t sure if it was just wishful thinking over the summer, not at first. He forced himself to wait. To be patient. Eventually, he came to the conclusion that Gil _was_ looking. Briefly, because he’d glance away guiltily afterwards, but the want was there. He watched Malcolm and he wanted. Malcolm wanted, too. “Don’t lie to me. Please.”

There’s a knock at the door. “Hey, Santa! You’re wanted out here.”

Gil doesn’t even look at it. “I’ll be out in a minute!” His fingers graze the remote, his face pale. The guilt there is both heartbreaking and telling. “Can we — _fuck_ , Malcolm, can we talk about this after the party?”

“My mother agreed to let me stay overnight. My bag’s with Miriam,” Malcolm says as he walks closer to the desk. He pulls the remote out of the plastic and places it in Gil’s limp hand. “Please just think about it.” Putting on a society smile and forcing himself to be brave, he leaves the office and Gil behind. 

His legs are jelly.

He _might_ have just ruined everything.

An hour passes without incident. Gil is good at hiding the awkwardness, or maybe it just helps that he’s talking to child after child without pause, playing the role he’s been volunteered for. He listens to their Christmas lists. He asks them if they’ve been good. He hands them a full-sized candy cane from the basket beside him.

It’s only when he runs low on them and has to ask Malcolm to get the next bunch that it happens. He’s in Gil’s office. He’s reaching for one of the bags on the back shelf. 

A low grade buzzing rips a whimper out of him. The buzzing isn’t audible, no, but he can _feel_ it running through his body. Thankfully, the plug isn’t pressing against his prostate now or else he might have made too much noise. Malcolm braces himself against the wall, gathers his composure, and adjusts his pants.

Gil’s eyes are on him as soon as he leaves the office, candy canes in hand. He turns away, but it was enough. 

Malcolm quietly refills the basket and tries not to smirk. 

Another hour passes without much change. The first handful of times it switched off and later on again are pleasant surprises that _nearly_ cause a commotion. After that… it’s almost to the point that Malcolm can’t even feel it anymore, the vibration more numb than thrilling, and if it weren’t for the gaze that flickers over to him now and then, he’d wonder if it was an accident. 

“Santa’s hungry,” the kid on Gil’s knee says bluntly as Gil’s stomach rumbles audibly. “You should get him some cookies. And milk.” She hops off with her candy cane and wanders off.

Malcolm smiles and nods. “Cookies and milk coming right up.” And he does get a plate of cookies for them to share, but he also knows Gil likely hasn’t eaten since lunch, and so he walks past the tables of buffet food and fills up a plate of that, too. He sets both plates down to grab a can of coke for each of them — and his jaw snaps shut as the vibration kicks up a notch and shifts to a pattern of alternating long and short buzzes. 

His smile is shaky as he makes it back to Gil’s side. He jams a gingerbread man into his mouth to keep any moans from slipping out. 

The party is slowing down. The orphans have come and gone, all loaded up on their buses and sent back with pockets full of candy canes and cookies. Gifts for them based on their letters to Santa were compiled by everyone at the precinct over the last month and quietly loaded in the back of the buses during the festivities. Even the families of the cops on duty have started leaving, sleepy kids in their parents’ arms or leaning into their sides as they wander towards the doors.

Gil hasn’t been approached by a kid in at least ten minutes.

And then Miriam comes out to the main floor with a camera. 

Malcolm forgot about the pictures. They always took a group shot with that year’s Santa and everyone on duty, and this year, it means Gil. 

Of course, Miriam ropes him in, too. 

She has him perch on Gil’s knee. Malcolm doesn’t complain even as the position drives the still vibrating plug right against his prostate. The grin on his face is very fragile. 

Gil wraps an arm around his middle. 

The pattern changes again. This time, it’s a furious staccato that makes his toes curl and his legs jerk ever so slightly. 

Miriam declares the picture perfect just before Malcolm comes right in his pants.

The vibrations cease.

With a gentle arm around his shoulders, Gil guides him back to his office and into one of the chairs he has set up in front of the desk. He himself drops into his office chair, pulling off the hat, wig, and beard without a word. “Tell me this is what you want,” he says roughly. “ _Promise_ me. I see one hint of doubt, and this is over.”

Malcolm rounds the desk and drops to his knees at Gil’s feet. “I swear it is.” He slowly reaches for the zipper to the suit pants and, when there’s no resistance, pulls Gil’s thick cock free. “I want you so bad.” A smirk spreads across his lips. “It’s at the top of my list, Santa.”

“If we’re doing this, it’s Daddy.” Gil tugs Malcolm up to his feet, pushes the waistband of his green pants down to knees. “Your mother is going to kill me,” he groans.

Malcolm is already hard again. His reddened cock is smeared with his own spend, the rest of it sticky in his boxer briefs, and he stands there unashamed, trembling from the thrill of it all. He crowds Gil back into the chair and climbs into his lap. The move brings their cocks together, Gil’s getting slick with Malcolm’s come. “What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her, Daddy.”

It’s not so hard to call him that. Not hard at all.

Gil cups his ass and tugs him closer with a growl. “ _Fuck_ , kid, this is so wrong.”

Instead of responding, Malcolm kisses him clumsily, deeply. 

One of Gil’s hands shifts to grip the base of the plug. He pulls it back just until the widest part pops out, Malcolm’s cry swallowed up by his mouth, slipping it back in just to feel him shake. “God, you’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs against his lips. 

Malcolm flushes. “ _La petite mort_ , right?” He rises up enough to move Gil’s cock to rest along the curve of his cheeks. His own rubs up against the cheap red and white coat Gil wears. “I’ve dreamed about this.”

“Yeah?” Gil breathes out. He tugs at the plug again, but this time, he removes it entirely, setting it on the desk base down. His fingers dip into Malcolm’s hole. It’s slick though not dripping now that the lube isn’t so fresh. He’s tight, too, and Gil’s cock twitches against pale skin. “Tell me about it.”

“I have a toy.” Malcolm’s eyes flutter shut as two thick fingers thrust in and out of him. “I-I like to pretend it’s you stretching me, filling me up.” He bites his lip. “I call out your name against my pillows.” 

Gil captures his mouth for a rough kiss. “Have you ever ridden it? Pretended you were taking my cock?” He adds a third finger.

Malcolm keens. “Yes,” he gasps. “All the time. Daddy, please.”

There’s very few times Gil has been able to say no to him, and this is no such time. He wraps his hand around his cock and guides the tip to the clenching hole he’s aching to fill. He groans as it finally pops in. The glide is not quite smooth. In any other circumstance, he’d love to add a little more slick, but he doesn’t have anything in his office. 

Malcolm braces himself on the armrests. A determined look on his flushed face, he slowly takes the rest of him until he’s cradled in Gil’s lap, his ass bare against vibrant red. He breathes in and out, his mouth open. “Fuck,” he whimpers. “You’re so big.”

Gil strokes a hand along his back. It’s warm even through the layers Malcolm still wears. “Take your time, kid.” His voice is strained. 

“You’re so much bigger than my toy,” Malcolm continues. “I never thought it would feel like this.” He lays a sloppy kiss on the corner of Gil’s mouth, catching the goatee, and Gil turns his head to deepen it, the two of them riding out the initial shock in each other’s mouths. 

Gil traces the rim of his hole, feeling how it’s stretched around him. It makes his cock throb. “Show me what you did with your toy.”

Resting his hands on Gil’s shoulders, Malcolm rises tentatively. His body grips onto Gil at first. The lack of lube makes it slip out bit by bit, only the slightest sheen left on his length. He stops before the head pops out. He takes a deep breath. His hole clenches, already feeling so much more empty. Slowly, he takes him back in. Each little press jarrs him. It’s absolutely nothing like his toy. Gil is thick, hot, throbbing. He presses against Malcolm’s prostate with ease in ways Malcolm struggled to angle his toy to do.

He feels _real_.

And, unlike the toy, Gil will be filling him up tonight. Malcolm bites his lip at the thought, taking in the last inch or two with a quick rock of his hips. The bell on the end of his hat jingles with the sudden movement. He wants to be dripping with him, with the reminder that he’s Gil’s and Gil’s his.

He tells him as much. “You know what’s second on my list this year, Daddy?” he says breathlessly as he rises again.

Gil strokes his hips with his thumbs. His eyes are hooded, intent on watching Malcolm move. “Tell me.”

“I want your come,” Malcolm whines, settling back in his lap. A string of precome drools from the tip of his cock down to Gil’s jacket. “I want you to come inside me.”

That’s all he can take. All he can sit idly by for, and so Gil tightens his grip on his hips and lifts him about two thirds of the way off. Then he bucks up as he yanks him back down. The drag burns ever so slightly. Their bodies clap, only somewhat muffled by the Santa suit he still wears. Sweat beads up on his forehead. The bell on Malcolm’s hat jangles. 

“ _Gil_.” 

Gil grunts as he continues to fuck up into Malcolm, as the hands on his shoulders clutch at him desperately. “C’mon, kid, touch yourself for Daddy.”

The hand he wraps around himself is desperate, clumsy. “God.”

“No,” Gil says roughly, “ _Daddy_. Come on my cock, and I’ll give you what you want, baby.” 

With the pace he sets, Malcolm barely has to work himself, just hold on for the ride. Every thrust and yank jostle his grip. His hat is loud in the closed space. He inadvertently strokes himself in jerky spurts over and over and over again. He comes all on Gil’s suit. 

Gil captures his mouth and swallows his cries as he fucks him through it. “So fucking tight,” he grunts. He yanks him down one final time, grinding up into him and tucking his face in Malcolm’s neck to hide his own noises. His hips snap up as his body tries to bury itself as far into his clenching hole as possible.

The hat finally slips off Malcolm’s head to hit the floor with a half-hearted jingle, the hair underneath sweaty and mussed. He looks just as fucked out as he feels. “Daddy,” he says and chuckles breathlessly. “I think we’ll need to change before we get out of here.”

Gil breathes slow and deep. “I have a change of clothes under my desk,” he murmurs against Malcolm’s neck. “Your bag’s with Miriam, right?”

Malcolm hums an affirmative. 

“Then I’ll get dressed and go get it.” Gil finally pulls away only to pull him into a soft, lingering kiss. “We have a _lot_ to talk about, kid.”

Reluctantly, Malcolm gets off of his lap. Gil’s spent cock slipping from his hole has him gasping. “Could you hand me the tissues?”

But Gil shakes his head. Instead, he grabs the plug from his desk and gestures for Malcolm to turn around. He scoops up the trail of leaking come, pushing it back into his puffy hole with two fingers and following it up with the plug. It slips in easily with his spend to slick the way. “Think you can hold that in until we get to my place?” He taps the base once, twice.

Malcolm shivers. “Of course, Daddy.”

The apartment is dark, empty. Gil flicks on the light as soon as he opens the door. It shuts behind them, and then he’s being pushed against the wall by all hundred and ten pounds of freshly fucked Malcolm Whitly. 

Malcolm holds his arm up high, a flush spreading along his cheeks.

Gil glances up and laughs. The heavy conversation ahead of them barely crosses his mind in this moment.

It’s _mistletoe_. 

He ducks his head to bring their lips together, his hand rising to cup Malcolm’s jaw. “Merry Christmas, kid.”

**Author's Note:**

> 12/22: made minor changes at Tori's request 😘


End file.
